The Smile that said everything (901 words)

Ramanathan was close to eighty. Age had bent his back a little, but not his spirit. His eyes could still spot a fallen pin, and his ears could catch even a whispered conversation in the next room. He had been blessed in life—three sons, three daughters, a comfortable home, enough savings to keep worries at bay, and a steady stream of children and grandchildren dropping in and out of the house.

His wife, Saroja, however, had begun to slow down. Long years of managing a household had finally caught up with her. She tired easily, and her knees troubled her with recurring pain. Ramanathan had fixed a maid who comes at 9 am to help her with the chores

Unfortunately, Ramanathan was more active, making constant requests to his wife.

“Saroja, where are my glasses?”

“Saroja, can you bring me some hot water?”

“Saroja, did you keep my newspaper somewhere?”

From morning till night, he called out to her frequently, adding to her frustration.

By seven every morning, he would usually have wandered into the kitchen at least ten times, asking whether the coffee was ready.

“Is the decoction done? How much longer would it take?”

 

But that morning, there were no footsteps, no questions, no complaints. The house felt strangely silent and empty.

Wondering whether he had overslept, Saroja walked into their room with coffee in a dabara and tumbler. He did not utter a word but gulped the coffee at one go.

Ramanathan again rested on the bed, staring at the ceiling and then at her.

“What happened today? Are you angry or what, or are you unwell? Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, her voice trembling.

No answer. He slowly turned and looked straight at her. Nothing else, even as she shook him. Fear gripped her heart.

“Mangala! Call the children at once!” she shouted.

Then she began muttering to herself.

“As if my headaches weren’t enough, now this old man has decided to lose his mind! Even when he was healthy, I could barely keep up with him. What new predicament is this?”

One by one, the children arrived.

The eldest son bent over him. “Appa! What’s all this drama so early in the morning? Say something.”

It was met with Silence. Thinking he could no longer hear, the son dropped a metal tumbler onto the floor.

Clang!

Immediately, Ramanathan turned toward the sound.

“Ah, he can hear!” everyone exclaimed.

But the old man simply looked at them with the same blank expression.

The youngest son came closer and asked gently.

“Appa, are you in pain? The doctor is coming. Just say one word. Everyone is worried.”

He continued to stare. Saroja began to cry.

“What will I do alone? Where will I go? Why is God testing me like this?”

The daughters-in-law quietly looked away.

The doctor arrived and examined him thoroughly. Everything seemed perfectly fine.

Finally, the doctor removed his spectacles and sighed. “I honestly don’t know what’s wrong. Let’s wait for a few days and observe.”

After he left, the daughters looked at their brothers.

“Amma can’t take care of Appa alone anymore. What do we do?”

The eldest son cleared his throat.

“I live in a two-bedroom flat. The children already share a room. Where is the space?”

The second son shook his head. “My in-laws are staying with us. You know the situation.”

Someone mentioned the youngest son in Mumbai only to invite a comment that he barely has room for himself.”

Their sisters sighed.

“I’ll have to ask my husband. It’s not easy. “The second one nodded in agreement.

The youngest said, “I live in a small rented accommodation on the second floor with no lift. If there is a compelling need, I am willing to consider moving here and take care of the parents.

 Silence filled the room. Nobody spoke

Then the eldest son spoke again. “Let the status quo continue. We will come daily by turn. I think we should meet a lawyer.”

Everyone looked at him.

“We don’t know if Appa has written a will. We should sort these things out. “The younger nodded thoughtfully.

Throughout the conversation, Ramanathan was simply looking at them silently.

Two days later, only his eight-year-old grandson sat beside him. Saroja had fallen asleep in the adjacent front hall

The little boy climbed onto the bed.

“Grandpa,” he whispered, “will you talk only to me? I like you very much.”

For the first time in days, the old man’s face softened.

He pulled the child close and kissed his forehead.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asked gently.

The boy nearly jumped off the bed.

“Grandpa! You can speak! But Amma told Auntie you’ve gone mad!”

“Shhh…” Ramanathan whispered, smiling. “Don’t tell anyone. Only now have I understood who everyone really is and their nature. Don’t worry. I will turn normal soon.”

Just then, Saroja walked in.

“I thought I heard someone talking.”

The boy quickly replied, “It was me, Grandma. I keep asking Grandpa questions, but he doesn’t answer at all.”

“My fate…” she sighed, tapping her forehead, as she left

The little boy turned toward his grandfather.

And there it was. A quiet smile with a mischievous wink!

Not the smile of a man who had lost his mind— but the smile of a man who had finally found the truth and an accomplice.

The words that he left unsaid (955 words)

 

My father was a stern man, seemingly devoid of tenderness. He had a volatile temper and could lose it over the slightest irritation. When driving, he would curse pedestrians crossing the road and motorists who delayed him at traffic signals. In shops and restaurants, he expected immediate attention, and even the smallest delay would provoke his anger. He had little patience for what he considered foolishness. Proud, authoritarian, and uncompromising, he had few friends.

At home, his arrival each evening filled us with dread. The moment he stepped through the door, his eyes would scan the house. If he spotted school bags, shoes, or books lying out of place, he would erupt. My two sisters and I would scramble to gather the offending items and disappear from his sight as quickly as possible.

He was never physically violent, but his tongue was sharp. His sarcasm could wound more deeply than a slap. We feared him rather than loved him and rarely turned to him for comfort or advice. All our affection was reserved for our mother. We pitied her for having to spend her life with such a difficult man.

While my sisters chose silence, I often challenged him whenever I felt he was being unfair to my mother. My defiance only enraged him further, and he would accuse her of raising me to be insolent.

The breaking point came when I decided to marry a colleague. He was everything one could hope for—well-educated, professionally successful, and from a respectable family. The only obstacle was that he belonged to a different religion.

I was determined to marry him despite my mother’s tearful pleas to reconsider. She feared my father’s reaction and warned me that he might sever all ties with me forever.

When I refused to yield and wedding invitations were printed, my father summoned me to the living room one evening. In the presence of the entire family, he exploded.

“Pushpa, you are no longer my daughter. You have disgraced this family. Get out of my house. I disown you. And remember this—you are never to enter this house again, not even after I am dead.”

My mother protested, and to my horror, I saw him raise his hand as though to strike her. I picked up my handbag and walked out. I took nothing else—not even a change of clothes. That was the last time I saw him.

My mother and sisters called occasionally, but they never dared visit the home I shared with my husband.

Years later, one of my sisters called to inform me that Father had died suddenly of a heart attack. The cremation was to take place that evening. She did not ask whether I would come.

I wanted desperately to be with my mother, but my father’s final command echoed in my ears: Do not enter my house even when I am dead. I decided to honour his wishes. After all, he had made no effort to reconcile. I had even learned that he had prevented my mother from visiting me when I had fallen seriously ill.

The crematorium was crowded with relatives and neighbours. I stood at the edge of the gathering, unnoticed. His body lay in the hall, draped in a fresh white shroud. My mother and sisters sat beside him, weeping. Suddenly, grief surged through me. Tears blurred my vision. I had disliked his ways, but I had never hated him. If anything, I had always felt sorry for him.

I do not know how long I stood there before I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my sister. Without saying a word, she led me to my mother.

My mother’s eyes were swollen from crying, and her face looked tired and worn. The moment I saw her, years of suppressed sorrow broke free. I embraced her and wept. She asked me to come home after the ceremony. I made some excuse and promised I would visit later.

A week afterwards, I received a call from an attorney’s office requesting my presence at three o’clock that afternoon. When I arrived, my mother and sisters were already seated there.

The lawyer opened a file and announced that he would read the essential portions of my father’s will, written only a month earlier. I listened with little interest. After all, he had disowned me and carried his bitterness to the grave.

Then the lawyer began reading:

“I have done a grievous wrong to my daughter Pushpa, and I repent sincerely. It was my foolish pride that prevented me from accepting her choice of husband. It was not his religion that angered me, but the fact that she chose her path without involving me. In my anger, I ignored the pleas of my wife and daughters to welcome her back into the family.

Pushpa inherited my independent spirit. Today, I am proud that she dared to stand up to me. I have loved her no less than my other daughters. I ask her forgiveness. I hope she will once again visit her childhood home and restore the bond that I was too stubborn to mend.”

I hereby bequeath 40% of my estate to my wife, and the remaining 60% equally among my three daughters.”

I could scarcely believe what I had heard. Tears streamed down my face.

“Daddy,” I cried, “forgive me for never understanding you. I miss you so much. Why did you leave before telling me all this?” The room fell silent.

Some reconciliations arrive too late. unsaid Yet even then, they leave behind a lesson worth remembering:

What is past is past. But there remains a future for those who possess the humility to repent and the courage to make amends.

 

Murari's Promise (1256 words)

Murari, come sit beside me. I want to tell you something important. I hope you’re not sleepy,” said Govindan, a frail man in his late seventies.

The ten-year-old hurried to his side.

“Tell me, Thatha. I’m not sleepy at all. You look tired. Would you like a plantain? Rukmini aunty gave me two, and I saved one for you.”

The old man smiled. “What a thoughtful boy you are. I only wish I were younger and stronger. There is something you must know. You are all I have. Your mother, my only daughter, took her own life when you were two. She could no longer bear the cruelty of your father. A man consumed by vice, he abandoned you in my care on the very day of her funeral. It may have been the only decent thing he ever did.”

“I know, Thatha,” Murari replied softly. “And Grandma died soon after because she couldn’t bear the grief. Please tell me what you wanted to say.”

“Listen carefully and don’t interrupt,” Govindan said gently.

“After I’m gone, you will have no one except Rukmini. She is a distant relative and your grandmother’s dearest friend. She lives next door and has promised to care for you if the need arises. The income from my small piece of land in the village will be entrusted to her for your upbringing and for her own needs. Life has not been kind to her either. Since her husband died, she has earned a living by selling idlis and dosas.”

He paused to catch his breath.

“Shall I bring you some water, Thatha?”

“Yes, child.”

After sipping a little water, Govindan continued.

“My grandfather once went on a pilgrimage to North India. There he met a yogi unlike any he had ever seen, ageless, radiant, and magnetic. Overwhelmed, my grandfather fell at his feet.

“The yogi smiled and handed him a small yellow pouch containing a Saligram, a sacred black stone representing Lord Hari Narayana. He instructed him to worship it every day with flowers, water, and Tulsi leaves.

“My grandfather prostrated before him again in gratitude. But when he rose, the yogi had vanished.”

Murari listened with wide eyes.

“My grandfather obeyed those instructions faithfully for the rest of his life. After him, my father continued the worship. When my father lay dying, he made me promise to carry on the tradition, and I have done so ever since, until illness prevented me a month ago. Now it is my turn to entrust the Saligram to you.”

Murari looked puzzled. “What exactly must I do, Thatha?”

“Nothing elaborate. Keep the Saligram in a clean place. Light an oil lamp, offer flowers and Tulsi leaves, and chant ‘Hari’ or ‘Narayana’ ten times. Treat that space as sacred. Keep it clean and respectful. Will you promise me that you will do this every day?”

“I promise, Thatha.”

“Good. Watch me perform the puja today so you can learn. Remember, this is no ordinary stone. It is the Lord Himself in this form. And if circumstances ever make it impossible for you to continue, give the Saligram to the Krishna temple. Never neglect it.”

Murari nodded solemnly.

A week later, Govindan passed away peacefully in his sleep.

After the funeral rites, Murari prepared to begin the worship. But life had suddenly become complicated.

Rukmini’s little food business was growing. Her tiny house could no longer accommodate the increasing number of customers. She kept her kitchen there and converted Murari’s larger hall into a dining area.

She rose at four every morning to cook. Murari helped before school in various ways, fetching water, cleaning, and cutting plantain leaves for serving food. By the time he returned from school each afternoon, more errands were waiting.

Business improved further. Soon, Rukmini added vadas and bondas to the evening menu.

Murari was happy for her, but his days became crowded with responsibilities. Homework suffered. Rest became scarce. Most painful of all, he found himself unable to keep the promise he had made to his grandfather.

When he first mentioned beginning the puja, Rukmini asked him to wait a little longer until things settled down. Another fortnight passed. Deep inside, Murari knew that things would not change soon. The Saligram deserved daily worship and a clean, sacred place. Instead, it sat neglected.

Remembering his grandfather’s instructions, he made a difficult decision.

The next morning, carrying the small box containing the Saligram, he set out for school but turned instead toward the Krishna temple.

Tears filled his eyes. “Forgive me, Thatha,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Lord. I cannot keep my promise.”

The temple was crowded. The priest was busy inside the sanctum, and devotees stood waiting for darshan.

As Murari waited, a boy about his own age approached him.

He wore only a simple dhoti with sandal paste on his forehead. Yet there was something extraordinary about him. His eyes sparkled, his smile was enchanting, and his voice carried an irresistible sweetness.

“What are you carrying so carefully?” he asked.

Mesmerised by the boy’s presence, Murari replied, “It contains a sacred Saligram of Lord Hari Narayana. My grandfather made me promise to worship it every day. I can no longer do so, and I’ve come to give it to the temple.”

The boy listened attentively.

 “Will you give it to me instead?” he asked. “I will care for it with devotion. It will never be neglected.”

Murari hesitated. “My grandfather told me never to give it to strangers. Only to the temple.”

The boy smiled. “Then I am not a stranger anymore. You can see me here every day. Consider me your friend. I live here.”

There was such warmth and sincerity in his voice that Murari found it impossible to refuse.

“You’ll see me tomorrow,” the boy said, extending his hand. “And you’ll be happy to know that your Saligram is safe. I promise.”

Almost as though under a spell, Murari handed him the box.

The next morning, the temple priest unlocked the sanctum and froze in astonishment.

Around Lord Krishna’s neck hung a garland of yellow thread bearing a black Saligram pendant. The ornament had not been there the previous night. The sanctum had remained locked. No one could have entered.

Overcome with devotion, the priest fell at the Lord’s feet.

News of the miracle spread quickly. By midmorning, the temple was overflowing with excited devotees eager to witness the wonder.

At nine o’clock, Murari arrived eagerly to meet his new friend.

He searched every corner of the small temple. The boy was nowhere to be found.

Then he heard people speaking excitedly about a mysterious Saligram that had appeared around the deity’s neck.

His heart raced. Pushing through the crowd, he stood before Lord Krishna. There it was, his Saligram. Forgetting everyone around him, Murari cried out,

“Where are you? You promised I would see you today. I came to meet you and see the Saligram.”

At that very moment, the air filled with the fragrance of sandalwood and fresh flowers. Temple bells began to ring on their own. The lamps burned brighter than before.

And Murari heard a voice. “I am standing before you, wearing the Saligram you gave Me. Look upon Me whenever you wish. Your grandfather is happy, for you have kept your promise.”

Murari slowly lifted his head. For the briefest instant, he saw not the stone image of Krishna, but the smiling boy who had taken the Saligram from his hands. Then the vision vanished.

But the smile remained forever in his heart.  

 

Raja’s Redemption (926 words)

 Raja’s world was shattered one stormy night when a boat carrying his parents capsized in the river. He was just ten. Orphaned without warning, the boy stood numb by the banks, his small hands clutching the wet soil as if hoping it would give back what the river had stolen.

His uncle, a poor gardener in the city, took him in—not out of affection, but out of obligation. The man already had a brood of his own and worked part-time in several homes, barely making ends meet. His wife, overburdened and bitter, took an immediate dislike to Raja. From the very first day, she made him scrub floors, fetch water, and clean dishes from dawn till dusk. His meals were meagre, his bed a worn mat in a dark corner.

Though his uncle noticed the boy’s suffering, he dared not challenge his domineering wife. One morning, he took Raja along to the grand house of Mr. Srinivasan, where he tended a sprawling garden. With hesitation in his voice and shame in his eyes, the man pleaded:

“Sir, I have too many mouths to feed. My wife sees the boy as a burden. Could you perhaps keep him here? He’ll do errands, help in the house—he needs only food and a roof over his head.”

Mr. Srinivasan looked at the thin, frightened child standing silently behind his uncle. His heart softened.

“He can stay,” he said. “Let the boy have some peace.”

Over time, he became more than just a servant. His gentle nature, bright smile, and unwavering dedication endeared him to everyone. The lady of the house, kind and maternal, treated him as her own. He was enrolled in a nearby school and showed promise in his studies. Naren, their only son, older by three years, was friendly—at least in the beginning.

Raja finally felt like he belonged.

But peace is a fragile thing.

Naren, once bright and cheerful, began to drift. He fell in with bad company—boys who skipped school, watched movies all day, and wasted money at fast-food joints. He started lying to his parents, demanding money frequently and coming home late. They remained unaware, trusting in his silence and in Raja’s.

Raja knew everything. He saw the deceit, the growing bad habits in Naren, but he said nothing. It wasn’t his place. And he owed this family too much.

When exam results came, Naren’s scores were dismal. Srinivasan was furious.

“Raja,” he said, pointing, “does all the work you should be doing and still excels. What’s your excuse?”

For the first time, Naren turned on Raja. That admiration soured into something bitter.

Two weeks later, chaos erupted in the house.

A costly gold watch, Mr. Srinivasan’s prized possession, had vanished. It had been left on the living room table. No visitors had entered the house. Suspicion grew on Raja.

“Did you take it?” Srinivasan asked his son.

Naren, visibly irritated, shrugged. “Why don’t you ask the outsiders?”

All eyes turned to Raja. When he saw the master’s angry face, his legs trembled.

“I didn’t take it,” he whispered.

“Then where did it go?” Naren barked.

“Enough!” his father silenced him, but his voice had already cast suspicion.

Srinivasan’s eyes narrowed. “No one came into this house but us. If you took it, Raja, return it. There’s still time.”

​Tears welled up in Raja’s eyes. He sobbed, not from guilt—but from the pain of being doubted by the very man who sheltered him.

The family waited. Hours passed. The watch remained missing.

That afternoon, Raja sat alone near the school playground, his spirit crushed. The drawing teacher, who also taught physical training, noticed the boy’s distant gaze. He had always had a soft corner for Raja.

“What’s wrong, Raja?”

The boy broke down. Between sobs, he told the whole story.

The teacher listened in silence. Then he said, “Let me ask around. I’ll find the truth.”

That evening, when the family gathered again, Srinivasan stood with the cane in hand.

“Have you brought the watch?” he asked coldly.

“No… I don’t know where it is,” Raja said, trembling.

Fury overtook the master. The cane came down—once, twice, again and again.

“Ungrateful wretch! After all we did for you—this is how you repay us?”

Raja winced and cried in pain, but still said nothing. He wouldn’t betray Naren.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

A man entered—a middle-aged pawnbroker holding a small packet wrapped in cloth.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he said. “I heard from the school teacher what happened. I must do what’s right.”

He handed the packet to Srinivasan. Inside was the missing watch.

“Your son, Naren, pledged it for Rs. 200.”

A stunned silence swept the room. All faces turned to Naren. He was crying, silent, and ashamed.

 Srinivasan’s fury exploded once more—but this time at his son. He raised the cane again, but his wife and the others intervened, pulling him back.

He turned then to Raja, broken, bruised, and silent.

Dropping the cane, the man knelt down and embraced the boy tightly.

“Forgive me, Raja. I wronged you… We all did.”

He kissed his forehead, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Everyone in the room felt the weight of Raja’s silence—his dignity, his strength, his loyalty.

And for the first time, Naren looked at Raja he had hated and saw not a servant, not as a rival, but a brother.

Castle in the air (901 words)

Vijay was always there at 8-30am in front of his apartment’s elevator. He was on the fifteenth floor, the topmost floor of the building. There was another young woman whom he found most days waiting for the elevator around the same time. There were many apartments on each floor, and he did not know in which apartment she lived. She must be around 25, smart looking, attractive, a bit dusky and wear her dress well to enhance her charm. He has never been able to strike up a conversation with her, as a few other residents invariably joined to take the elevator. He had seen her casting furtive glances at him. Vijay was a tall and handsome young man with curly hair that any woman would be happy to have a second look at.

The elevators were taking a long time to reach the top floor. It was drizzling heavily, and the sky was overcast. The morning paper had forecast a heavy downpour with thunderstorms. She looked at her watch restively and repeatedly looked at the display panel. There were none around. Vijay smiled at her and said, “Should be here anytime. The weather is scary.” She did not reply but with a faint smile, nodded her head in agreement. Emboldened Vijay asked, “I see you quite often here. I am Vijay in apartment 1516.” She just said that she was also residing in the same floor but did not indicate the number. Meanwhile, the elevator came. They were the only two occupants, and he pressed 0.  As the elevator started sliding down, he heard a roll of thunder. The lift was going to the thirteenth floor, twelfth floor, eleventh floor…..

Vijay said, “I am always scared to travel by lift during the rain. This thunder is scaring me. I am somewhat relieved that I have some company.”

Just as she replied, “I am also averse to using the lift in such circumstances, but I am in a hurry today.” Even as she was speaking, there was a loud thunderclap, and the lift came to a sudden halt. As Vijay swore “dammit’, the girl said softly, “The power must have been cut, and coolly, pressed the call button and asked for help.

She was told that the power had gone out in the entire area due to the rain and thunder, and that they may have to wait for a while. Looking agitated at the reply, she said that she had an important meeting to attend to and that all the papers were with her. Vijay replied, “There is nothing we can do except to pray to God for the resumption of power. It can take an hour or more depending on our luck, Miss, er. . .” Viji “, she replied.

They sat down on the floor at two corners and were silent for a while. Viji was afraid to be alone with this young man whom she had seen several times, but drew comfort with the thought that he was, after all, a co- tenant in the complex and appeared decent.. Vijay on the other hand was inwardly happy at the power break down and the prospect of spending an hour or more with this attractive woman alone in the small confined space. He had always watched her with romantic interest, though he had no occasion to cultivate her. He saw from the corner of his eye Viji casting stealthy glances at him.

 Vijay started fantasising about how nice it would be if she were Mrs Vijay. He told her that he was an IIT/IIM product, a vice president in an MNC bank, that he owned the apartment and that his parents were pressing him to marry soon.

 She looked at him with wide eyes and said, “Congratulations! What a wonderful accomplishment with a bright career. I hope a girl of your choice would materialise soon”

. Vijay took this as a subtle hint and was thrilled. He asked her what she was doing and was told that she had a PG Diploma from Xavier’s in HR Management and that she was with a reputed company. Vijay was doubly happy that if she agreed, his partner would also be equally highly qualified. He had already started building castles in the air.

 He moved slightly near her and asked in a whisper what she thought of him as an eligible groom. She broke into a sweet smile and said, “Which girl would refuse you? You are a talented and handsome hunk in a very nice position. She will grab you at the first opportunity.”

 Vijay concluded that this was an oblique remark to indicate her interest in him. He was on cloud nine. He decided to ask her out in the evening to take the matter to a logical end.

Even as he was rehearsing the sentence in his mind, the elevator became alive and started sliding down fast. As the doors opened on the ground floor, with many waiting there impatiently, he finally mustered the courage to ask her, “Viji, would you come out with me?”

 “Certainly, why would I not? How long do you think we should be confined in this sultry rat hole? Meet my husband, Ravi,” she pointed out to a young, charming man waiting at the entrance and waving his hands at her. “He is an IAS officer and a topper that year,” she added.

 

The Letter That Changed Everything (932 words)

 

Chetan rarely received personal mail. Most of what arrived in his post-box consisted of bills, bank notices, and glossy advertisements he never bothered to read. In fact, he had not stepped into a post office in months; life had long shifted to emails and mobile notifications.

So, when he noticed a cream-colored envelope tucked among the usual clutter, he became curious.

His name and address were written in elegant cursive handwriting. The letters were graceful and deliberate, perhaps feminine, though he could not be certain. Ever meticulous, Chetan slit the envelope carefully with a pair of scissors and unfolded the tiny square note inside.

It read:

Please come on the 23rd at 7 p.m. to the address on the envelope. A surprise awaits you. This is neither a trick nor anything harmful. Please do not fail to come. You will find the effort worthwhile. This may change your life in the very way you wish it to be.
— B

Chetan frowned.

He knew no one whose name began with B. He had no business rivalries, no hidden enemies, and certainly no mysterious admirers. His life moved calmly and predictably, like a quiet stream.

There had only ever been one great disturbance in that calm, and it is Swati.

He had loved her deeply, and despite the years, he still did. But Swati had moved abroad with her parents for higher studies, and distance had slowly hollowed their once-intense relationship. Their long letters became occasional emails, then just greetings, and finally silence for a couple of months. Yet Chetan continued writing to her, confessing his love even recently, though every message remained unanswered.

It could not possibly be her. Her name did not begin with B.

Another thought crossed his mind. He worked for a reputed company, earned well, and was considered management material. Could a competing firm be trying to lure him away?

Curiosity soon overcame caution.

On the evening of the 23rd, dressed carefully in a dark blazer, Chetan arrived at the address. Before leaving, however, he had prudently informed a close friend of his destination and instructed him to look for him if he failed to return by nine.

The address led him to a sprawling bungalow with a long driveway lined by old trees. A stern-looking assistant in a white uniform opened the heavy front door before Chetan could knock.

“I am Chetan,” he said hesitantly. “I received this invitation to come here.”

“Yes, sir,” the assistant replied with a polite bow. “We have been expecting you.”

Chetan stepped inside but paused.

“Could you at least tell me who this ‘B’ is?”

The assistant's lips curled faintly.

“Ms Bhumika, sir. A wealthy lady. Owns estates across the country. Never married.”

Chetan blinked. “And why exactly has she invited me?”

“I wouldn’t dare say, sir,” the assistant answered carefully. “Though I can make a fair guess. Let me only say this, that you are a very fortunate man to be in her good graces.”

The mischievous smile accompanying those words irritated Chetan immediately.

He was led into a richly furnished drawing room draped in velvet curtains. Sitting on an enormous sofa was a large woman in her fifties. She had broad shoulders, heavy arms, and an imposing presence, but her warm eyes and cheerful smile softened her appearance considerably.

Still, the way she looked at him made Chetan uneasy, somewhat like a tiger calmly studying prey already within reach.

“Welcome, Chetan!” she exclaimed warmly. “How kind of you to honour my invitation. Please sit beside me. My eyesight is rather poor.”

Reluctantly, Chetan sat near her.

To his discomfort, she clasped both his hands affectionately and rested them on her lap.

“You have made me very happy today,” she said.

Chetan attempted politely to free his hands, but before he could, the butler appeared with tea and cookies.

Gathering himself, Chetan asked, “May I know the purpose of my visit?”

Bhumika laughed heartily, revealing her yellow teeth.

“My dear boy, surely you can guess. It is entirely romantic in nature and, with luck, may end in marriage!”

Chetan sprang to his feet.

“This is absurd!” he snapped. “There must be some mistake. I have no intention of marrying anyone. You have wasted my time.”

“Please, don’t be upset,” Bhumika replied calmly. “I find you exceptionally suitable. I assure you, you would become wealthier than you ever imagined. In fact, I have no intention of letting you leave until we settle matters.”

Chetan’s patience snapped.

“This is outrageous! You cannot keep me here against my will. I don’t care how wealthy you are. I love someone else, a young woman named Swati. She is abroad, and I have been waiting for two years. Do you understand? Now, please let me go.”

He strode toward the door.

But the assistant stepped in front of him.

“Sorry, Sir,” he said gently, “you seem to be leaving rather quickly. Perhaps you should turn around first.”

Annoyed, Chetan turned and froze

Sitting beside Bhumika and struggling to suppress her laughter was Swati.

For a moment, the room spun around him.

Then she stood and rushed toward him with shining eyes.

“Surprise, is it?” she whispered.

Chetan stared speechlessly.

“I returned with my parents two days ago,” she explained. “They know everything about us now. Aunt Bhumika helped us arrange this little drama. We wanted to surprise you before announcing our engagement.”

Bhumika burst into laughter while the assistant grinned openly.

And as Swati wrapped her arms around him, Chetan realised that the mysterious letter had truly changed his life exactly the way he had wished.

 

 

The Hollow Applause (528 words)

( I have utmost regard for the medical professionals for the noble service they render true to their conscience and the Hippocratic oath they take. As in every profession, there may be a rare crook. No disrespect is meant to anyone. This is a story.)

The renowned surgeon, Dr Chandra, looked at Sunder, about his age, in his late 30s, with a poker face and spoke slowly. His father accompanied him.

” I have had all the tests done. I believe only an intervention by surgery would help, though there is a small amount of risk. If it is not done, there is a greater risk to your life. If both of you agree, I can prepare for it,” said the surgeon.

“What would we know about this? We would be solely guided by your advice, “said Sunder.

“Don’t worry. I will ensure everything is taken care of,” replied the doctor.

After they left, the surgeon’s second man, Dr Gupta, who was also a reputed surgeon with a deft hand, asked him, “Chandra, I am not sure whether the case calls for surgery. It is very risky, and very likely that the man may not survive. This is done only as a last resort when everything else has failed, and the patient is on the verge of death. I am really at my wits’ end. Are you not troubled by your conscience and the oath you took? Why are you resorting to this course? Don’t take me amiss. As a long-time colleague and friend, I spoke out”

Dr Chandra kept quiet for some time and then slowly started talking, “I am aware that surgery is premature in this case. But let me confide in you. I have a private score to settle. This man snatched away my sweet heart with his money and good looks. She was in deep love with me and very intimate till this fellow came into the scene.”

“Is it not murder that you are contemplating?” interjected Gupta

“No, it can at best be a wrong judgment. I am going to perform surgery professionally, and if he still succumbs due to the complications common in this process, can I be held responsible?’ said Chandra. He added, “I am a divorcee, and she is still charming.Who knows what can happen?”

“Sorry, I would not like to be associated with you in this operation”, said Dr Gupta as he left in disgust.

As a true professional, the surgery was carried out with utmost precision. Despite Dr Chandra silently waiting for some adverse development, luckily for the patient, none arose. The young man recovered steadily, making the operation a remarkable first-time achievement for both the hospital and the surgeon.

At the press meet after a few days, the Chairman congratulated Dr Chandra warmly while reporters flashed cameras without pause.

Sunder and his wife thanked the surgeon profusely before leaving the hall. Yet Dr Chandra did not fail to note the smirk on her face.

Standing a little apart, Dr Gupta watched the celebrations in silence. Then he walked up to Chandra and said quietly,

“Strange, isn’t it? You wanted him dead. Instead, you have made him live longer, happier, and more grateful to you than ever before.”

Dr Chandra forced a smile but said nothing.

Gupta looked at him steadily and said, “You still lose, Chandra.”

For the first time that evening, the roaring applause, Dr Chandra got, sounded hollow to him.